True! Between the two of us He might be only, 'my God'; however; 'my God' is, also, Lord over you, too; and it remains to be seen which one of us finally makes it; and which one does not.

The idea is "Stewardship".

Nobody can pay for the sins of the past. But someday, we must answer for them, if we are ever to lay them to rest...

Mods, relax... I researched and wrote what follows...

Sacred Silence

In memory of Martha

For Allan W. Eckert, who remembered very well…

While vocal in matters of fraternization and love, pigeons and doves have no sound for pain…

In oceans of air, before men were there,
the passengers flew through our skies.
Their power and grace, men would not embrace,
their beauty was lost to their eyes.

At home in the skies and kin to the earth,
their dominant cousins would not see their worth.
Within walls of sound, the flocks could abound,
in numbers described best with awe.

Borne of the dove, they glided above,
a land that gave promise to life.
Then now-enter man, no respect for the land,
he brought murder and wastage and strife.

Men plundered and ravaged, they murdered and savaged,
then built up a cult with lost lives.
By wheel and woe, they had chosen their foe,
while they bragged to their children and wives.

Men sat by their fires and learned through the wires,
the movements of flocks through the seasons.
The birds had no chance, men could tell with a glance,
at the maps they had wrought with their reason.

With established intent, these men were hell-bent,
on ridding the world of this “plight”
They rose with the dawn, then stifled a yawn,
and went out to fight the “good fight”.

They brandished their guns, those fathers and sons,
and wholesale slaughter began.
They took and they took and with no second look,
they wreaked havoc again and again!

But the birds, they were strong, though gentle their song,
sheer numbers ensured their survival.
Familiar with strife, they’d succeeded with life,
they did well up until man’s arrival…

Still, who can withstand the onslaught of man,
as he mindlessly schemes to the end?
As a man of my time, I can say with clear mind,
that many would do it again…

A few minds prevail, to hand down the tale,
that somehow got lost over time.
Won’t they sing of the hunt? Won’t they brag of the sport?
Won’t they put it to music or rhyme?

Tell tales of the sport, to sew shut the eyes,
of the cock that they tied to the stool.
Their pole-men and clubs, their nets and their knives,
gave new definition to cruel.

Tell tales of the nights, filled with cries of the young,
as they called out in vain to the stars.
While brave men contrived to burn them alive,
up in flames went their souls—what of ours?

Forget not the youths, with their innocence lost,
that survived to the dank forest floor.
Men tore off their heads, then returned to their beds,
so sure there would always be more.

Men killed all they could, in meadow and wood.
The wounded, they left without pity.
And those that survived, they were shot from the skies,
from rooftops, by men in the city.

They called it a “hunt”. Some said it was ”sport”.
Some tried to relate it to science...
They were smart as men go, but did anyone know,
that a dove bears its pain in proud silence?

Magnificent tribe, you once graced our skies,
but I cannot confess that we cared.
Now it’s too late to cry, for we’ve wounded the sky,
would we’ve stopped had your voices been heard?

Today, few remember the Passenger Pigeon,
some reach in their efforts to find.
But it’s too late to try, for we’ve wounded the sky,
and these words, more than fair, have been kind.

On September 1st, 1914, the last Passenger Pigeon, Martha, died in a Cincinnati zoo. A social creature, she was said to have constantly scanned the skies for the flock that never came; and she became agitated at the sight of a Mourning Dove, which closely resembled her kind.

While no one today can pay for a travesty of history, if we care to insure that it won’t be repeated, we must account for it, apologize, and guarantee that it will never be allowed to happen again; only then, may we put the matter to rest, and move on.

--RB

P.S. On 12/01/2012, my wish of a lifetime, my lifetime, is that we finally acknowledge, and put this matter to rest.